


Twining the Thread of Fate

by lysanatt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a few seconds, Narcissa Malfoy holds the destiny of her family and of the wizarding world in her hand. She must choose: either she is willing to die for whom she loves most, or she will continue to be the Dark Lord's slave together with her emasculated husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twining the Thread of Fate

' _If you weigh well the strengths of our armies you will see that in this battle we must conquer or die. This is a woman's resolve. As for the men, they may live or be slaves_.' - Boadaceia.

 

**Twining the Thread of Fate**

For a moment her life stands still. There are sounds around her, muted, Death Eaters moving around slightly. But the silence is the noisiest. It gives her time to think. She closes her eyes to keep the world out, to be able to consider her options. The silence of the trees reminds her of her home, the place that was once a quiet, calm refuge; the place where her life had its centre, its root. Now it is but a place, raped and taken over by unwanted conquerors, as if it was any house, any piece of land and not the cradle of a proud line of pure-blood wizards. She might not be of Salazar Slytherin's direct line, not his descendant, but her family is as pure.

Her eyes narrow. What she thought would benefit her world has now shown its true face. The Dark Lord is nothing but a brute; a violent, distorted shadow of what he once was, wrung out of shape and sanity by ambition. She winces as she steps up to the limp body on the ground. Of course their lord could not ask her to do this like any normal person would: no, he uses pain, humiliation, degradation, to make his followers perform the slightest task. That is all he has left, those instruments. She understands that he never cared for them, only for himself. Her chest still aches from the curse he sent at her.

But the pain is nothing, not compared to what her husband has endured, how much he has taken from their lord and the woman who calls herself her sister. Only it is the way of the Malfoys: to quietly endure until they, like a striking snake, take their chance and move in for the kill. Every moment of the time they have spent as prisoners in their own house--hostages for the welfare of their son--they have kept quiet, not wanting to compromise their heir.

Narcissa is not a mind-reader; Occlumency and Legilimency were never her fortes, but one thing she knows: The Dark Lord would have cherished the moment one of them had given him even the slightest reason to cast the fatal Unforgivable on their son. That is what has kept them quiet; quiet and obedient, nothing but subdued slaves. The have lived with the risk that a wrong word would cost them Draco's life and the future of the family line.

She sees it now, how they have let go of their pride. How Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters are nothing but conquering troops; like the Roman armies washing over their lands thousand years ago. This is nothing but a war, and she understands how they have all become serfs, Lord Voldemort's slaves. It was never what she wanted. She followed her husband because he promised her a better world for their son: a world respecting old traditions and the secrecy of the wizarding world. And the opposite thing happened: it is pure luck they haven't yet been exposed entirely to the Muggles.

Slowly she kneels in the dirt, an almost symbolic action: she is there already; a slave, unworthy in the eyes of he who should cherish her worth, her family's worth. The smell of sweat and damp soil reaches her; a smell of dead leaves and battles. Is this what her life will become in the future? Kneeling in the dirt to do an unworthy master's bidding, waiting only to tend to the dead? She breathes in deep and pride rises, a rearing warhorse in her mind. This is not how it was meant to be: her husband a slave, just as she is. Only now it is too late. Everything is too late, and she can either choose to submit--or die. Her choices were taken from her when Lord Voldemort decided her family had no value.

Her hands wander over the limp body on the ground. She leans over it, the skin still soft and warm. It could have been her son, lying there, gone. She would have cried for him, cried for Harry Potter, did she not hate him so much. Such a waste... such a waste of talent... all of this, their long fight for purity and dominion... wasted. If Draco lies like this, dead, somewhere up there in the castle when they are done fighting... it will be Lord Voldemort's doing, even if he did not speak the curse.

She leans over Harry Potter's lifeless shape. Her hair falls like tangled threads over her face, tickling the still-warm skin of the young man on the ground. Slowly she raises a hand, reluctantly; it feels like desecration to touch the Boy Who Lived like this: to find out if the flame has died out that once burned inside him. She pulls an eyelid away from a dead eye. It stares out in nothingness, sees nothing, blind.

She rests a hand on Potter's chest and the low thudding of a beating heart hit her like a Bludger. Her eyes are wide with shock, and she is grateful her face is hidden by her long hair. She has always had an iron-strong control over herself, but Salazar and Merlin! This is... beyond belief. Her hand moves inside Potter's unbuttoned shirt, over pink skin, and it is there! _Life-life-life_. A slow rhythm of hope and plans and _gods_ , she needs time to think! In front of her the world moves, large wheels tick and turn and alter the fabric of the future. She holds the shuttle of her life--like one Norn, one of three Wyrd Sisters--the shuttle to mend or ruin the weave of their world.

This is _her_ hour of destiny. Does she want to fight and maybe die in the attempt to save her son; fight in a way that compromises her wishes for the world she lives in? Or does she want to be the slave to a man who has already betrayed them? Does she want to let her family stay as his playthings, until he tire of them and dispose of them in an off-handed, indifferent way; killing them if they displease him or he finds them useless? The Dark Lord's thirst for revenge is famous, and they are already in the spotlight.

She realises that she, with a sentence, can alter the destiny of her husband, her son, of the entire wizarding world. Outwardly calm, she lets her hand stray, buying time. If Potter is alive, does she dare believe he is strong enough to kill the Dark Lord? Can Potter play this game as well as any Slytherin? Does she dare die for this? No, she decides, she does not want to die. But she dares to live! If her son is alive he will need her, and this is the only way her beloved husband can be freed of his fate as the Dark Lord's serf. If Potter does what he is predestined to do, they will be free. Only she must know before she acts. She must know if her son is alive, if the risk and the fighting and her death are worth it. She doesn't care about the wizarding world any more, that much the last year has taught her. Fill it with dirty Muggles; declare to all that Britain is the home of powerful wizards and witches, she doesn't care. All she wants is her son, her husband, and her house. 

And peace.

She just wants the war to be over and her son to be safe, and for the first time in her life she realises that she actually is willing to die for something. For someone. To win the right to live.

She leans forward, closer to Potter, making certain no one can see her lips move against the boy's ear. She will be dead in an instant if anyone realises what she is doing; realises her betrayal to what was once her cause, too.

' _Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?_ ' she whispers, so quietly that the words are almost not there, suddenly so very afraid to hear the answer. Potter's heart is beating strongly under her hand and she prays to the Lord that Draco's heart is too; beating strongly, safely.

' _Yes_ ,' Potter whispers back, and earns his life by a word.

Her hand claws at him, hidden by the shirt, and she tries to stay calm. Her nails scratch Potter, and for a second she is so afraid someone sees him flinch; afraid someone discovers the relief and determination in her eyes. Her son is alive! 

She rises, leaving her submission and sorrow on the hard ground as were they invisible capes of shame. She kneels like a slave but rises like a warrior: a protector of her family, stronger than ever. Death is nothing. Life and death she has ruled for a minute and, as she cloaks herself in the willingness to die for what and whom she loves and believes in, she knows she has already won her victory.

Narcissa Malfoy is nobody's slave.

'He is dead,' she calls out and around her she feels the weave of the world change. 'He is dead,' she repeats, whispering triumphantly, quietly, so no one can hear. And this time she does not think of Harry Potter.

**Author's Note:**

> For Femgenficathon 2007.


End file.
